


Kismet

by bttrmllw



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drabble, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:02:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25008910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bttrmllw/pseuds/bttrmllw
Summary: In which Hermione and Draco are Potions partners and there is no looming threat of Wizarding World anarchy."I'll tell you where you can shove these Shrivelfigs—" she begins, but Professor Snape interrupts by clearing his throat.She meets the Potions Master's eyes—unwavering ebony against self-righteous topaz—and exhales loudly through her nose. She says nothing more.At her side, Malfoy smirks.
Relationships: Hermione Granger & Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Viktor Krum (minor)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 240





	Kismet

**Author's Note:**

> my first foray into dramoine on ao3, hello~ this was written as a challenge, hope you enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it (: 

> **Prompt:** "The bounce has gone from his bungee."
> 
> **Additional prompts:  
>  **[quote] 'You know what they say about truth and the appearance of truth being opposites.'  
>  [word] Aromatic  
>  [creature] Hippogriff

* * *

**Kismet**

* * *

.

.

She tells herself it is for the greater good. Whatever it takes to keep Hagrid from being fired, she'll do it. But as the insufferable Slytherin demands that she chop his Shrivelfigs more evenly, Hermione feels the last shred of patience leave her.

"I'll tell you where you can shove these Shrivelfigs—" she begins, but Professor Snape interrupts by clearing his throat. She meets the Potions Master's eyes—unwavering ebony against self-righteous topaz—and exhales loudly through her nose. She says nothing more. At her side, Malfoy smirks.

As the class proceeds and the prat demands she chop his Gurdyroot more finely, Hermione wonders if perhaps she has a future in dentistry, what with her desire to cause Malfoy pain and discomfort growing tenfold.

.

.

 _He's pathetic,_ she thinks, as she overhears him put on a show at the Slytherin table. His arm lies limp in its sling while he recounts the _horrific tale_ of coming face-to-beak with the monstrous Hippogriff.

"That lumbering oaf has no idea what he's doing!" the Slytherin prat declares as Parkinson slices an apple for him. "My father'll get him sacked in no time. This could ruin my Quidditch career!"

At that, Hermione snorts into her tea, sending some rather hot liquid down her front. When she glances up, _he_ is looking at her. She draws her features into a scowl and he tuts, turning away.

"That pathetic excuse of a witch can barely even drink tea properly, and Snape expects her to help me in Potions?"

Hermione simmers and she swears the tea evaporates from her robes.

"You alright, 'Mione?" Ron asks from across the table, just then taking notice of her foul mood.

She huffs, "I'm fine."

She loves Hagrid and respects Buckbeak's rights, but in that moment, she mentally curses Hippogriff pride and wishes Buckbeak was a more timid creature—she'd wish that Malfoy was more pleasant, but even she knows that would be asking for too much.

.

.

Hermione is confused as to why she has to continue to help Malfoy in Potions. His arm is healed, yet Professor Snape insists they remain partners (something about how Weasley and Potter will be fine on their own, she needn't mother them). Add to the cauldron the fact that Slytherin Quidditch practice is scheduled _just before class_ , meaning Malfoy is _always_ late.

He swaggers in, donned in his uniform, sporting grass stains that has Pansy at his arm, asking if he's alright.

At least this time the blond prat has no reason to order her about like his own personal attendant. She finds some amount of satisfaction in the fact that his Baneberries lack the smooth consistency Professor Snape emphasized. Hers, on the other hand, are expertly done.

When he glances over at her work, she catches the slight downturn of his mouth and grins to herself.

Suddenly his cutting board drops to the floor, badly mashed Baneberries and all.

"Miss Granger, Help Mister Malfoy clean that up."

Hermione huffs. He's got two perfectly working arms, can't he clean it up himself?

"Could you move a little faster, Granger? Or is that bushy hair weighing you down?" Malfoy snaps.

Merlin help her.

.

.

It is in Fourth Year when their rapport evolves from constant beration to some level of respect—or a version of respect wherein Malfoy no longer belittles her. She is surprised the first time he gives her a task separate from his own and does not make snide comments about the quality of her work. In fact, he doesn't even inspect it, he simply trusts her.

Hermione gives him an odd look as she scrapes the Lacewing Flies into their cauldron, but he is busy reading through the instructions.

"We just need to slice the ginger, grate the Chizpurfle Fang, and we should be done," he declares, finally glancing in her direction.

She sees him as he is, without the airs he always puts upon himself. Beneath the layer of aristocracy and the family name, he is just another student, same as her, Slytherin or Gryffindor, Pureblood or Muggleborn.

Something resolves in her gaze, something he clearly dislikes, and his innocent expression darkens into all-too familiar territory.

"Well, what are you waiting for? I just said we need to slice the ginger and grate the Chipurzfle Fang—what, are you too stunned by my good looks?"

Despite his tone, Hermione bites back a grin and sets to slicing the ginger.

At her side, Malfoy is grating the fang, muttering about impossibly annoying partners and why does Professor Snape insist they remain together, what good could _possibly_ come from their pairing?

.

.

There is no denying that he is _fit_.

Hermione may be a bookworm and studious to a fault, but she is still female, and she certainly has eyes. To say she is surprised when Viktor Krum asks her to the Yule Ball is an understatement. Never has she been the object of someone's affection, and despite him being very much _not_ her type, she finds herself enthralled with the idea that a boy is interested in her for more than just help on homework.

"He's as dumb as a log."

Hermione blinks, peering over at the lone Slytherin situating himself at the end of the table. They are in the library, with scant few students around. The table is long and Malfoy has placed himself as far away from her as possible, though why he doesn't simply choose a different table is beyond her; there are plenty of unoccupied ones.

She quirks a brow as he digs through his pack and withdraws a roll of parchment along with several quills. "I'm sorry, are you talking to me?"

He fixes her with an insufferable look that she has come to learn means ‘ _don't be daft_.’ "Who else would I be talking to?" Malfoy snaps, setting a worn tome on the table.

"We're not exactly on friendly chatting terms," Hermione answers before returning her attention to her assignment at hand.

"He's as dumb as a log," Malfoy repeats, taking a seat.

"Crabbe? Goyle? I've always thought so. But really, it's not very nice to say that about your own friend, you know," she teases.

The Slytherin scowls. "Krum," he clarifies with more animosity than necessary.

His tone coerces a shrewd look from Hermione. "Do you even know him?"

"I know he's as dumb as a log," the blond reiterates.

"Because he's an athlete?"

"No, but that just emphasizes why you two don't make sense," the blond explains. "One: he's as dumb as a log; two: he plays Quidditch. Shall we play 'Name Two Things that Would Have Hermione Granger Running Away Screaming'?"

At that, she can't help but laugh. "You've a point," she concedes, noting the beginnings of a smirk that tugs up the corners of his lips, " _if_ , what you said is true. But he's not _dumb as a log_." Hermione sits up higher in her chair, pointedly turning her attention back to her paper. "Viktor is rather well-read. In fact, we discuss philosophy."

An inelegant snort escapes him. "Quidditch magazines don't count."

Hermione doesn't respond, unsure of exactly how to tell him he's wrong even though he is absolutely on the mark.

"I knew it."

She glares then, tired of his haughty tone, but he is watching her with an intensity that makes her face redden. "He's fit," Hermione says at last.

Malfoy's brow furrows almost imperceptibly, but she notices. He scoffs before finally starting on his assignment. "Never would have pegged Hermione Granger to be another girl who moons over dreamy blokes."

"Did you just call Viktor 'dreamy'?"

He doesn't look back in her direction, but the tell-tale pink of a flush peeks through his pale locks.

Hermione grins to herself before adding, "I may be intelligent, but I'm still a girl, you know. I do notice boys. I simply choose not to change for them, or chase them."

When he glances her way, his eyes are darker than usual—or is it the lamp light? "You certainly shouldn't."

There is such sincerity in his gaze that she is caught entirely off-guard.

"But if you think any self-respecting boy with a pulse will come near you and your head of tangles, I've got bad news, Granger."

.

.

Hermione offers him a tilted smirk as she walks by, hand placed in the crook of Viktor's arm, hair sleek and smooth.

The look Malfoy gives her does a strange thing to her chest that she pointedly ignores.

That evening, something has visibly changed in their interaction. Where she and Malfoy had found a comfortable place between enemies and friends, the former has slipped into new terrain: caution. He regards her warily, she can read it in his eyes; his initial shock in seeing her has worn off and has been replaced with a mixture of incredulity and... _fear_?

Hermione finds that this new change disturbs her. He avoids looking her way (which isn't strange in and of itself, but she has become accustomed to meeting his eyes whenever they are in each other's vicinity) and does his best to bestow compliment after compliment upon a simpering Pansy Parkinson.

.

.

"She's as dumb as a log."

He doesn't even greet her with a cursory glance and Hermione drops her book bag onto the table, sitting down in the chair across from him.

"Who is?" Malfoy intones, with little interest.

"Your date."

At this, the Slytherin quirks a brow. "I'll not have you speaking of Pansy that way in my presence."

"Or what?" Hermione challenges, feeling a strange sense of aversion at the mention of the dark-haired girl.

"Or I'll have to agree."

She blinks.

With a shrug, Malfoy returns to writing his paper. "She certainly talked my ear off all night. The entire time I was thinking about what I wanted to include on this assignment, instead."

All the animosity leaves her. "For Arithmancy?"

He shakes his head. "Muggle Studies."

" _You're_ in Muggle Studies," Hermione clarifies.

Malfoy absently nods.

"Why?" she presses.

There is a beat of silence, then, "I've been intrigued, lately."

.

.

"Been following Quidditch?"

It is a crisp winter day in their Sixth Year. The duo are settled in the library, books spread about the table before the fire place. With the holidays approaching, they have quite a bit of work to do to prepare for their End of Year Exams.

"Was that a joke?" Hermione cracks from behind her Transfiguration textbook.

Malfoy scoffs, sounding so amused that Hermione peers over in his direction. He is fixated on his own tome, silently mouthing the words to himself as he finishes a sentence before taking a bite from an apple. When he is done, he looks up at her, not at all surprised to see her watching him. "So, have you been following it at all?"

Hermione simply frowns. "You know you really aren't allowed to eat in here—"

"I figured, considering your boyfriend is a Quidditch star, you'd at least be somewhat aware of the goings-on in the sport," he elaborates, waving aside her nagging.

"Oh." The Gryffindor shrugs. "I wouldn't say he's my boyfriend, although we'll write from time to time."

"That's it?" Malfoy inquires. "Last I recall, you were all a titter."

"I was _not_ 'all a titter'. It was simply nice to be _liked_."

"Plenty of blokes like you," he states.

"I believe you said, and I'm quoting from memory here so please bear with me: 'if you think any self-respecting boy with a pulse would come near you and your head of tangles'—"

"Well it's not a head of reprehensible tangles _now_ , is it?" Malfoy interrupts.

Hermione falters, mouth agape. "I...suppose not."

The blond frowns, rolling his eyes and returning to his books.

"He hasn't been doing well, I hear," she says as she writes her name at the top of a fresh page of parchment.

"He's been playing terribly," Malfoy concedes. "Been a right embarrassment," he goes on, prompting a hum of agreement from the girl. "He was the best Seeker, but it's as if he's an entirely different person. One could say that...the bounce has gone from his bungee."

Hermione's quill stops and she looks up to see the wide grin on his face. She can't help the smile threatening to stretch across her lips at his expression. "Bungee?" she repeats.

And the dam breaks.

"We've just covered bungee jumping in Muggle Studies and it's quite possibly the most idiotic and thrilling thing ever!" he gushes in as much a manner a Malfoy is able to gush. "Muggles are absolutely insane—What is it that keeps them from, er...falling to their deaths? I suppose they have to find their thrills other ways, without broomsticks and—wait, they _have_ flying contraptions? They _jump out_ of flying contraptions?"

Only after Hermione has finished penning her paper does she realize the name accidentally written at the top: _Hermione Malfoy_.

.

.

She sits in Potions, frantically stirring her cauldron—26 times clockwise, 26 times counterclockwise—while Harry, who has quite literally asked her for help on every single Potions paper in all years previous, is happily humming while he ignores the instructions in the text and does as he pleases.

To her irritation, Professor Slughorn announces that Harry Potter's Amortentia is perfect.

Curious and perhaps a little skeptical, she peers inside her friend's cauldron. The scents hit her all at once: parchment, grass, and...apples?

It is dizzying and fills her up like a deep, everlasting breath. She sighs at the mixture of aromas perfectly tailored to her.

When she returns to the present, she finds a pair of silver eyes studying her with unnerving intensity. His gaze seems to say he _knows._

Knows what?

.

.

"Pecans?"

"No."

"Cider?"

A sigh. "No."

"Tell me it's not something dumb, like roses, or vanilla."

Hermione lets out a groan, dropping her head into her hands. It is days before they leave for Christmas, and she is stressed enough as it is about her End of Term Exams.

"Malfoy, as much as I'd like to discuss the intricacies of what true love smells like to me, I've got three more chapters on Charms to study, now will you kindly _be quiet!_ " She returns her attention to her book with an exaggerated turn of her head.

"Is it the smell of books? Ink?" His voice is quiet now, all playfulness abandoned. "Parchment?"

Her eyes pause their perusing.

"Is it rain?" Malfoy continues, studying her intently. "Dew? Grass?"

Her breathing stills.

"Apples?"

Finally, she glances up from her chapter.

There it is again, the deep molten quality in his eyes. It draws her in like the aromatic scents from the potion, simultaneously filling her up and pulling her apart.

Casually, he withdraws an apple from his book bag. "Apples, then?"

"You really shouldn't be eating in here," Hermione evades, but he ignores her.

"You know, whenever we interact there is always copious amounts of parchment," Malfoy points out, studying the bright green apple in his hand. "And I've always got bits of grass on me, what with Quidditch."

"I hear I'm not much impressed by the sport," the witch responds. "Nor athletes," she adds for good measure.

Malfoy inclines his head. "You know what they say about the truth and the appearance of truth being opposites."

She is lightheaded; she is soaring. That same feeling from the Amortentia fills her up, but there is none nearby—only Malfoy. His scent bombards her, envelopes her. How has she never noticed it before?

"Do you know what it smelled like for me?" he continues.

The sound of his chair moving against the hardwood floor alerts her to him rising from his seat. He moves around the table, slow, cautious.

 _He's so fit_ , she thinks, and is immediately annoyed with herself. The thought had always been tucked in her mind, but her consciousness refused to acknowledge it.

"I smelled tea," Malfoy reveals. "Tea, leather-bound books, and something else I can't quite put my finger on." He is near, so near that she can count the lashes lining his eyes. When he leans forward, his breath trickles through her locks. "It's _this_ ," he says, exhaling heavily, the warm air sinking deep into her shoulder, through her robes, her shirt, into her skin. "It's your hair. What _is_ that?"

"Coconut," Hermione whispers.

"Coconut."

Warm, autumnal topaz melts into cool, crisp slate.

He grins, shattering the taut moment: "It's a shame you don't like Quidditch players."

Her mouth first opens, then closes, then opens again. He _chuckles_.

"Hermione, there you are! C'mon, it's nearly curfew. You don't want to get caught out of bed _again_." Harry is standing at the door, verdant eyes jump back and forth between Hermione and Malfoy, as if piecing together a difficult puzzle.

"Thanks Harry, I'll just be a second!" Hermione gathers her things in record time, ignoring the static that fills her brain. "I'll see you?" she says to the Slytherin, allowing an excited smile to grace her lips.

He returns her smile; it is small and secret and tentative, but it is there.

Hermione flushes and turns on her heel, joining Harry in the corridor. She inhales a deep, steadying breath to calm her electric nerves.

The air smells like apples.

.

.


End file.
